


Playing Favourites

by rrueplumet



Category: Original Work
Genre: Butch/Femme, Enemy Lovers, F/F, Hate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 23:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17477375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rrueplumet/pseuds/rrueplumet
Summary: PWP.  Officer Cherry has been chasing cat burglar Grayson Cromwell for months.  Tonight's confrontation is going to go differently, and she is not going to be distracted by that swagger or charm or... or...She really hates her.  Really.





	Playing Favourites

**Author's Note:**

> No real warnings other than hate sex/enemy lovers and all that comes with it. Otherwise it's just smut and a good romp.

Cromwell decides to heave herself through the foyer skylight rather than attempt a side door escape.   The second stairwell leads to the alleyway, more or less offering a clean getaway - depending on which road she inevitably turns down.   But  _no_.   It just wouldn’t be a Grayson Cromwell robbery without the hitch and glitch and pitching a damn  _scene_.  

She can’t just rob a place and take off.   Can’t just a rob a place and get caught.   Can’t just rob a place and  _almost_  get caught.    No.  She’s gotta make my life a living hell and force me into downright humiliating scenarios.  Last week I chased her through a museum and nearly toppled an artifact  _my_ _self_.     This week it’s the rooftops. 

And Hollywood has never grasped the complexity of a rooftop chase sequence.   This isn’t a blockbuster moment.    I stumble and pant, exasperated, exhausted, but definitely not  _excited_.   No sir.  Fuck Grayson Cromwell and her arrogant charm.   I won’t fall for those  _d_ _e_ _ep_  eyes, or the short dark hair, and where it gets just a little thicker on top and -  No.    And if she’s big and butch and built like a - well, like someone who heaves themselves up through foyer skylights, then I don’t notice.   Not at all. 

Grayson and I have been locked in this cat-and-mouse game for over a year now.   This ends tonight.  

“Lost sight of the target,” I sigh, holding my mouthpiece high.    

My team insisted on following a different route so I’ve wandered out of bounds.   I know Grayson Cromwell better than anyone.  Instinct always overtakes me.    _I_ was the detective assigned to her case a year ago.    _I'm_  the one who’s been chasing her, who’s had confrontation after confrontation - only to lose that rotten, oversexed bitch every damn time.    Not tonight.  

Not tonight.  Not tonight -

I turn a corner, slipping into a shrouded pocket of the complex’s rooftop.   Midnight has unfurled across the city, the sky black and blue, stars scarce as the city lights overwhelm their glow.    The busy soundscape rings loud in my ears as I inch across the rooftop shadows.  I touch my hand to the wall, a small compartment with stairs leading into the building.   

I aim to lean over, to discreetly peer around the corner.   Grayson Cromwell is undoubtedly two rooftops over by now.   

No sooner do I make such an endeavour does someone grab my wrist.    My mouthpiece is torn from grasp and chucked behind me.   Not that I dwell on it because I too quick find myself whipped around.   

And who should be standing there but Grayson Cromwell?

_Oh god_ , is all I can think,  _not again_.  

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says in that rich, charismatic voice, grinning at me with lips I know to be perfect and warm and supple -  “I like how you curled your hair tonight.  You miss me?” she asks.    

I don’t answer.   I  _never_  answer, goddamnit.   She just swoops in and starts kissing me, fingers locked around my wrist as she crowds my body.   I feel the wall behind me, though everything outside of her eager mouth slips to nothingness.  I hate her.  I really, really hate her -

\- she’s just so  _good_  at this. 

But  _no_! 

“Come on now,” Grayson says, catching my other hand when I attempt to strike her.   Honestly, the effort is half-hearted.   I glare at her nonetheless, sucking in a deep breath.   “We’re finally alone and you wanna spend it doing  _that_?”   She’s still grinning, the righteous ass.   “I think we know each other better than that, Cherry.”

My name is  _Sheri_.  Only friends call me Cherry.   Grayson Cromwell is not a friend.   She's a - she's a - she's a -   

“You jackass,” is the retort I manage, barely a whisper.  My eyes are on her mouth the entire time.   Still, I lift my defiant gaze to her, but her expression is unbearably  _fond_.    Damn her.    I squirm in her grasp, her hands locked around my wrists.    A duffel bag sits on the ground, likely containing tonight’s stolen treasures.   

As usual, that really wakes me up.   

“Motherf - ” Grayson wheezes.   My knee to her gut successfully liberates me.   

Grayson doubles over, then catches herself on the wall while I slip free and circle her.   I kick the duffel bag aside, drawing my gun and pointing.   It’s probably useless.  I won’t shoot and she damn well knows it.    But she pays me the courtesy of turning around, leaning against the wall and breathing deeply.    Then she just stands there with her hand drifting to her crotch, drawing my eyes down there so I can't miss the fact she packed and prepared for tonight - oh yes she did, flaunting that butch arrogance, probably sporting a size too big to flatter herself.  

Her chest rises and falls with each deep breath, but her gaze is positively riveted, locked on me.    

“Really?” she asks, a little bitter, a little amused.   She smoothes her hand over that carefully packed bulge.   I should have kneed her there and dislodged the stupid thing.  Preferably up her snatch.

I very pointedly fix my stare on her  _face_.  

“Don’t start with me, Cromwell.”  I make sure to snarl this time.  The snarl is always effective.    

Not effective enough, it would seem.   She grins again.  Her hand skims the waist of her jeans.   

“But that’s my favourite part,” she says, then dramatically reconsiders.   “Well…  _second_  favourite.”  

I step closer, threateningly.  

“Grayson Cromwell, you have the right to - ” 

“Oh, come on,” she says, rolling her eyes.   She turns them to me and  _god help me_ , the absolute  _heat_  of her stare…    “Not this old speech.  Can’t we skip the defiant meandering and get to the good part?”  

“Sorry,” I say, tone positively dripping in sarcasm.   “Part of the gig.  Unlike your lechery.”  

“Yeah, I get that.”   

In a blink, she closes the space between us.   I find myself wrapped in her arms, my back to her front, my hips tightly slotted against hers.   She folds my arms over my chest and holds me down.   I jerk and twist but she follows, holding me steady.    Her breath is warm at my ear as she chuckles.    

“And I prefer  _seductions_  to lechery,” she purrs.  

“You’re an abhorrent scumbag." 

“You know I love it when you talk dirty.”  

Though it almost pains me to break this backward embrace - because  _fuck_ , with every feeble jerk I grind against her and she unabashedly accepts it - I wrench free.   My gun is gone, kicked somewhere in her assault, so we're left to circle each other without weapons.     

She touches her tongue to her upper lip, lifting both eyebrows suggestively.   

“Let me guess,” she teases, “You want me on my knees?”  

“If it comes with your full surrender.” 

“Now when has that ever worked out for you?”  

_That_  riposte is true enough.  Some nights, I  _do_  overcome the belligerent cat burglar.   I’ve hauled her ass to the precinct on more than one occasion.     But she always weasels her way out somehow.   Whether it’s slipping out of the vehicle, or the holding cell, or a goddamned hearing, she finds her freedom.   Hell, she was under the watch of  _six officers_ one night and still disappeared without a trace.   I've even guarded her myself on occasion or two.   

it never deters her, in the end.    She always gets away.    We always end up here - back on this rooftop, or alley, or street corner, or basement.    With her grins and insinuations, and a quiet affection that I refuse to return.   

“Why haven’t you bolted?” I ask instead.   There’s nothing keeping her here.  I would pursue her, of course, but she hasn’t given cause.   I figure I know why.   

Sure enough, my question prompts her smile. 

“And miss  _this_?” she asks.   “Never.  We haven’t even gotten to my favourite part, remember?”  

We dance around each other, almost literally.   Jumping this way and that, we circle and circle until she finally takes the plunge.   After a small scuffle, I emerge victorious, slamming her into the wall.   She looks down at me, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Gonna tie me up too?” she asks.     

“Don’t fucking tempt me.”  

“Whoa there, detective,” she laughs, the obnoxious brute, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”   She lowers herself as best she can, rocking her hips forward.   It requires my entire mass to keep her pinned, my body considerably close to her own.   It allows her to rub against me - which makes my jaw clench and gaze darken.    “Naw,” she teases, smirking, “Just me.” 

She tips her head and catches my mouth, swallowing my retaliation.   It’s pathetic how familiar her taste is, how well she knows me, knows my body.  Knows exactly what I like, what I  _need_ , how to part my lips and open the kiss, how to jump from zero to sixty in a millisecond, hot and wild and without remorse.    

It’s just like her to steal a kiss in this fashion.   And it’s only appropriate.   The jackass steals everything else she comes across.    Why not me and my kisses?   

I return it, though, because of course I do.  Then, in my obvious distraction, she flips us around.  Once more do I find my back pressed against the wall, only this time she leaves no room for silly interruptions.   She hoists my hands above my head, pinning them there, separating my legs with a thoughtful nudge of her own.    I whimper, frustrated with my quiet surrender and clearly pleased with every other sensation.    She ravishes my mouth with expert skill, with  _familiar_  skill.  

“Fuck, detective,” she speaks against my mouth, drawing my bottom lip into the hot cavern of her mouth, sucking then nipping until I instinctively buck and moan.  I feel her smile against my lips.    “You’re my favourite girl, you know that?”  

“Fuck you,” is my response, growly and low, but it isn't as hostile as it should be.   She rocks her body against mine, that bulge promising  _so, so much_  as she grinds against my thigh.   

My reaction is downright primal.  A woman like me can't help but want a woman like her.   We were designed in perfect, different, similar ways.  

She works her own thigh between my legs and I groan, rubbing against her.   The friction is glorious.   Panting, I refuse her next kiss as I mumble, “Such a liar.”  

“Oh, I’m a lot of things, sweetheart,” she says, slowly and carefully turning me around.    I swallow, fighting her enough that I can say I did while admittedly allowing her the action.  My cheek presses into the plaster and she holds my wrists above me, clamped in one hand, while the other slides down, down, down -  “But I ain’t a liar.”  

She flicks open my pants, just like that.   No preamble or fumble.   The button parts and she lowers the zipper, then she slides her hand into them and settles far too comfortably.   I groan, thrusting back, not  dodging her hand but grinding myself against her.    She presses forward, pushing my hips into her hand.    She rubs me through my underwear, her mouth burning kisses down the shell of my ear.   

“I’d say how soaking  _wet_  you are for me doesn’t lie either, does it?” she asks.  Pressing upward, she slides my underwear against where I'm wettest.  I whine as she finds my clit, circling it teasingly.   I fight the tremor in my spine.   “Am I your favourite girl, detective?”  

“I hate you,” I whisper.   Her hand retreats and then -  “ _Fuck!_  Grayson!”

“Hell yeah,” she says, kissing along the curve of my jaw as she slides her hand into my underwear.   She wastes no time reacquainting herself, pleasing that tortured, throbbing nub and holding my wrists tight when I writhe.    “I can work with this,” she teases.  “Tell me, detective, you ever think of me when you’re alone?”  

“Go to hell.”  

“Maybe one day,” she replies, slowing her strokes to an agonizing pace before returning to her former pattern.  “But I’d feel real bad leaving you behind.   Who’d be here to do this - ?”   She mouths at my throat then dips her head,  _biting_  the sensitive curve to my shoulder.   With a thrash and moan, I come with unexpected strength.   My body rides its orgasm on her hand.   She presses warm kisses to my neck and face before sliding her hand out of my pants.  

“I’d tell you I think of you,” Grayson says, driving her hips against mine.   Oh god, that arrogant piece of equipment is  _right there_  and she works her hips like it's a natural part of her - “But you’d probably just get pissed.”    

Time for Plan C: distracting her with her own game.   Not that this ever works too well but… its always worth a try, right…?    _Right_. 

“You’d be surprised,” I return, voice a little sultry.   I turn around and she lets me, looking down.   She finally frees my wrists and I drop my hands to her shoulders, pulling her down for a kiss.    She happily obliges - then suddenly picks me up and presses me against the wall.   My legs wrap around her waist.   She fits perfectly against me.   

“Detective, you have no idea,” she breathes, then growls, nipping at my pulse point, “How badly I wanna fuck you.”   

Against my better judgment, I moan freely.   She continues to rock against me, sadly separated by layers of clothes.   I tip my head back as her mouth roams my throat, biting and kissing, probably marking.   I’ll have one hell of a time explaining those hickeys tomorrow.  

“I think I have some idea,” I reply, words disappearing in a gasp when her hands move over my breasts, groping both before touching slower, almost tenderly.     

“Oh, detective,” she says, hands sliding to my waist, gripping my hips as she drags a slow thrust against me, “Trust me, you don’t know.   If it was up to me, I’d fuck you right here, right now.  So tell me,” she leans in close to my ear, my eyes fluttering closed when she does, “What would your crackpot team say if they saw me fucking you right against this wall, huh?  If they saw me deep inside you, taking you over and over again?” 

Her words make me ache.   I can only combat them with sarcasm.    

“Lucky detective,” I grumble.   

She laughs, “Well, I am stupendous.” 

“Jackass.” 

“You love it.” 

I grunt, reluctantly affirmative.   Then I lick my lips and gaze at her -  _properly_  gaze, attentive and amorous.   I roll my hips, pulling her close with my legs.   I yank a few unruly tufts of short, dark hair.   

“Bet I could make you come in your pants, big shot,” I murmur into her ear, grinning at the groan she stifles.   My grin dissolves with a gasp when she nips my neck again, wetting the skin with her tongue.  I think she wants to mark me up, like I'm a piece of territory to claim, something else to steal for her collection.  Ugh, jerk.  Really.

I tightly grip the back of her head and lift it, meeting her gaze.    

“Matter of fact,” I say, and lean towards her mouth, “I think it would be easy.   I think  _you’re_  easy.  I think you get caught on purpose.” 

“That obvious, huh?” she teases.   

I kiss her, thwarting the imminent tirade of wise-ass remarks.    Instead I work my body free.   Minutes later, I have her laying flat on her back against the cold concrete roof.    If she notices the chill, she doesn’t remark on it.   She clutches my thighs when I straddle her.   Her breath catches when a few shorter curls fly out of my ponytail.  Then she tips her head back, breathing hard as I swivel my hips.   

“Detective,” she rasps, then brokenly does she rumble, "Cherry.”  

“What’s wrong, tough guy?” I ask, breathless.   The look of rapture colouring her face is almost surreal.   God, she’s so fucking gorgeous.   And I can feel her losing it under me, a simple dry hump bringing her closer and closer, as the toy strapped to her crotch is pressing down against her oh-so intimately.    She’s fighting it, having mutely accepted my challenge, but given how she trembles and groans and grips my body, she won’t hold out.    

“Please,” she murmurs, then moans helplessly at the way I move against her.  

“Please what?” I ask, “Please more?   Please harder?   Please fuck you?   God, you’d like that wouldn’t you…”   I trail off, my own voice a little hoarse as I imagine riding Grayson Cromwell without any clothing barrier at all - just me and her and all that angst and oh  _fuck_  no this is so so wrong but so so right -  

“ _Cherry_ —”   

I’ll never tire of how she says my too-pretty nickname when she comes.   I’ll never tire of the momentary surrender, perfect and absolute.   I’ll never tire of how she holds me or looks at me until her eyes close and her breath catches.    

And I’ll  _definitely_  never tire of the look on her face when I use the moment to capture her. 

Tonight I grab her wrist and cuff her to the pipe within arm’s reach.    When she realizes what I’ve done, surprise twists her features.   She tugs her wrist and the cuff rattles. 

“Oh come on,” she says roughly, attempting to grab me with one hand as I roll off her.  I can’t find my phone.   She must have picked my pocket and thrown it away.  My other communicator was snatched at the beginning.   I gather her duffel bag instead, looking back at her with a smirk.   She crosses her free arm over her chest, throwing me her best devil-may-care grin.   “You know what,” she says, “I’m not even mad.”  

“No, but you will be,” I say.    

She looks mighty enamoured.   The great big jerk. 

“If you say so, detective,” she replies.    “You know where to find me if you change your mind.   We could always go somewhere and get me out of these pants.”  

“No,” I say, smiling in spite of myself, “I rather like the sight of you chained up in your ruined pants like the thieving, good for nothing tramp you are.”   

My words don’t have the desired effect.  Or maybe they do.  I'm not sure how I wanted to affect her, to be honest.     Her grin persists, whatever the case.    

“Yeah, that’s how you like me, though,” she says, then has the audacity to wink.   

I turn away, shaking my head. 

“You’re incorrigible,” I reply.   

“And your favourite.” 

I try to glare, I really do, but it comes out void of real animosity.   I sling the duffel over my shoulder instead, marching past her.   My team shouldn’t be too hard to round up.   It’ll take a couple people to haul Cromwell’s ass to the main street.   

“I’ll be waiting,” Grayson says, saluting me mockingly as I saunter on by.   I don’t look back.     

Honestly, I almost  _expect_  the sight that greets my return. 

There sits an empty pair of handcuffs.   Rifling through the duffel bag will inevitably reveal it as a hoax. Whatever she stole was on her person and she made off with it.    And all I can do is stand there, arms crossed, staring at the empty handcuffs while my team searches the roof.   

I hate how I'm a little relieved under all that  _annoyed_.   

But the frustration is strong, so I turn and look over the skyline with fire in my gaze.   

I’ll have that lousy jerk - in whatever context deemed fit for the moment.   

I can probably admit that she is, after all, my favourite case.   


End file.
